I walked home from Darling Harbour yesterday afternoon, dreading the extensive mental to-do list that I needed to attend to later that night. I was drained and overwhelmed, not only by a never-ending array of steep stairs that stood before me, but because with every trouble that I attempted to wrap my head around, another issue flared up. I felt imprisoned within my own Catch-22 rut; cleaning up the clutter and making more mess in the process.
Her ears tuned in to the dissonant metallic notes that reverberated with every snip. She tugged those Shirly Temple curls straight and watched each lock elegantly float to the floor. They glided gracefully like feathers, forming a circumference of goldy-locks around her feet. How can something so light feel so heavy?